


nostalgic

by hanakeri (orphan_account)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxious Michael Mell, Bisexual Jeremy Heere, Boyfriends, Heavy topics, M/M, POV Jeremy Heere, Short, Suicide, Trans Michael Mell, Young Jeremy Heere, all lower case, boyf riends - Freeform, gotta get my vibes out, it's sad, letters to michael, realistic grieving, realistic suicide, vent fic, young michael mell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21969703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hanakeri
Summary: nos·tal·gia/näˈstaljə,nəˈstaljə/nouna sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------a story in which jeremy, a grieving boy, mourns over the loss of his summer spark, told in his notes app.
Relationships: Christine Canigula/Jeremy Heere, Jeremy Heere/Michael Mell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	nostalgic

August 16, 2019 at 9:28 PM

i can't stop staring at the last text messages i sent you.

**_you up?_ **

**_text me when you can_ **

**_mike?_ **

**_miiike?_ **

**_you good?_ **

you know, you never left me on read, even if we got into stupid petty fights. i miss being able to text you at three in the morning to see if you were awake (which you always managed to be). i miss holding you, and i miss being able to kiss such a person like you. you were... different, to say the least. different from any other spark i've ever had before. 

i've moved on, you know? not entirely, but i'm getting there. christine says i didn't deserve what happened, like you offing yourself was some sort of trauma you pushed onto me. i know she means well, but... i don't know, micah. i don't think i can handle another person calling me 'poor thing' and acting like i'm not a grown ass adult.

(i'm 18 now, i shouldn't be called a poor thing.)

i've tried everything to get in touch with your soul. spirit. whatever it is. ouija boards, dowsing rods, those weird radio things that flip through the stations every second. sometimes i doubt you're really there. maybe this was just some elaborate prank, y'know, like the ones you used to do all the time. except this one has lasted years.

and years.

and years.

(i try again every month, but i doubt that will change anything.)

when we first met i didn't think we'd end up going this far together. we were at the home stretch, and you bailed on me. i shouldn't be pissed at you, and i shouldn't be pissed at me. but i am anyway. am i going to hell for that?

i loved being a part of you and watching you grow into a person i wanted to be. you seemed so confident and happy with yourself. why couldn't you tell me what was really going on? why didn't you tell me that you couldn't handle it anymore? i wanted to help you. do you understand that? i wanted to help you out of that weird depressive funk you hit in the middle of summer. 

(my fingers are typing too fast for my brain. sorry.)

i've gone to your grave almost every day. your ashes are scattered across the path we used to walk down to get high together. i miss getting high with you. 

there are a lot of flowers at your stone. when i say a lot, i mean a _lot_. reds and whites. you're probably embarrassed, wherever you are. you hated attention and the color red.

it's two in the morning. it's raining out, and i can't stop thinking about that time we tried camping out together. it started to rain, and you were so pissed but we didn't care. we slept in the rain.

(we got colds the next day.)

your birthday is in two days. for the first time, i'm not celebrating it. i'm not celebrating anything if it's not with you. i miss it. i miss it, micah. it's been two years and i'm not over you. i haven't even accepted that it happened. 

(is that so wrong? fourteen years of knowing you, you should give me a break. it's not my fault i'm not over you.)

when i found your body i sobbed. you were the color of ash. there was foam at your mouth. there was blood on your arms. the carpet was ruined.

they tried to bring you back. they tried pumping your stomach. they tried narcan. you were too far gone.

i can't remember the last time i had a proper meal since that.

your image is stuck in my head. if i hadn't walked in so late. if i hadn't got caught up in traffic. if i didn't cry over your dead body before i tried calling for help, even though my own voice went against me and gave out. 

(i almost threw up because i was sobbing so hard, micah. isn't that pathetic?)

but i swear, i'm trying. i'm trying my hardest to get over you. it's fucked, but i've made a version of you in my mind. one that's always happy and smiling, and always manages to glow. i have conversations with you. i get mad with myself if i don't make the version of you say something you'd say. 

i'm tired. my eyes are closing.

i love you. goodnight, micah.


End file.
